


You Should Know Where I'm Coming From

by thegirlwhoknits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: But still amoral and sassy, Character Death, Disciples of Judas, M/M, Memory Loss, Past Abuse, Peter Hale Redemption Arc, Peter Hale goes to therapy, Peter is not evil, Rating May Change, Talia was a bad alpha, Talia was a bad sister, Therapy, but it's just Kate so who cares?, sorry - Freeform, the sheriff's name is John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhoknits/pseuds/thegirlwhoknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So basically this is my fix-it for season four's treatment of Peter, which made me angry enough to spit nails. I've reworked the beginning and will be expanding this into a longer fic.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“For a werewolf, especially a beta whose pack has deserted him, the healing process would take months. Months of unbearable, unmitigated pain, as muscle and skin slowly knit themselves back together, because werewolves metabolize painkillers too quickly for them to be effective.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faith

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this is my fix-it for season four's treatment of Peter, which made me angry enough to spit nails. Pretty much canon-compliant up through the scene it starts with, with the exception that Stiles and Malia aren't dating (I have no problems with Stalia but it would have needlessly complicated the fic), and also I couldn't be arsed to find out if we knew how many people were actually in the fire. I blame KouriArashi for the Left Hand business; I really like the concept of that position.
> 
> I reworked the original story and put it together to make Chapters 1 and 2. Chapter 3 is new material and there's more to come!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I get it, I really do. It’s hard to acknowledge that kind of pain, the way it changes you at some fundamental level, because we’re afraid it could happen to us too. We turn a victim into a villain, tell ourselves they must have been weak or evil to begin with to react the way any person would to that kind of hell. Sometimes it’s even easier to believe that of ourselves.”_

“Hands where I can see ‘em,” John demanded, his gun trained on Peter as the werewolf pulled to his feet.

“How the hell was I supposed to remember _any_ of that?” he protested.

“She got it from you,” Parrish said.

“I was out of my mind. Do you know what it’s like for one of us to be in a coma? Paralyzed but cognizant? You try not going crazy.” As he drew a shaky breath, another voice cut in.

“Fourth-degree burns extend through skin and muscle, straight to the bone.”  Everyone except the sheriff turned to the corner of the room where Stiles had been standing quietly up until now. He continued, in the calm, measured way he’d developed after the _nogtisune:_ “If they’re not fatal—and they usually are—the victim will go into shock from the excruciating pain.”

He crossed the room with a few unhurried strides and stood beside Peter, who stared at him.  “For a werewolf, especially a beta whose pack has _deserted_ him, the healing process would take months. Months of unbearable, unmitigated pain, as muscle and skin slowly knit themselves back together, because werewolves metabolize painkillers too quickly for them to be effective.”

Holding his father’s gaze with steady amber eyes, Stiles reached out and pushed the muzzle of the gun to point at the floor.  John’s eyes lowered too, against the force of the conviction in his son’s face.

“There were fourteen people in the Hale house during the fire, five of them children. Peter wasn’t one of them.” Stiles saw Lydia tip her head in confusion, and waited for the realization to dawn. When it did, he nodded. “He didn’t get those burns trying to save himself. He was _burned to the bone_ and trapped in a catatonic state for six years because he refused to leave them to die. He tried desperately to save his pack until the firemen dragged his unconscious body away from the foundations of the house.”

“Stiles, we didn’t know…” Lydia started.

“Some of you did, some of you didn’t,” he conceded, giving his father a hard stare. “And yeah, six years and a murderous rampage later, maybe the facts were a little fuzzy.  I get it, I really do. It’s hard to acknowledge that kind of pain, the way it changes you at some fundamental level, because we’re afraid it could happen to us too.  We turn a victim into a villain, tell ourselves they must have been weak or evil to begin with to react the way any person would to that kind of hell. Sometimes it’s even easier to believe that of ourselves.” His face softened a bit as he turned to Peter and squeezed one of his hands, which were hanging limp with shock at his sides.

“But I know what it’s like now, to be trapped and helpless while the people you love suffer and die. And maybe Peter deserves your judgment for some of his actions, but I’m not going to stand here and let you execute him for a goddamn thought crime.”  He grabbed the werewolf’s hand again. With a last wild look at everyone, Peter let the boy haul him out of the room.

 

Stiles marched them straight through the station, his brisk pace brooking no interference from any of the deputies.  Still in shock, Peter trailed along after him until they reached the parking lot, where Stiles collapsed against the side of his Jeep like his strings had been cut.  They were silent for a few moments while both of them processed what’d just happened.

“Thank you,” Peter said finally, trying not to sound too pained. “I know you didn’t do it for me, but thank you.”

Stiles’ eyes flashed open and then narrowed. “The hell I didn’t,” he snapped. “I meant what I said about believing yourself to be the bad guy, Peter. Those idiots in there might not be able to tell the difference, but I expect better from you.”

“Then maybe you haven’t been paying attention,” he sneered, falling back on familiar defenses.

Stiles scoffed. “Or maybe I’m the only person who has been. While everyone else has been distracted by your Disney-villain goatee and creepy lurking, I’ve been noticing the guy who stays up ‘til three a.m. with me doing research. Who, granted with a certain level of sarcasm, backs my plans in front of the pack. Not to mention the guy who threw himself into protecting Cora from the fucking _Alpha pack_ without a second’s hesitation.”

“I always knew you were the clever one,” Peter said softly. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head toward the sky, sucking in a deep breath. He was going to deeply regret this, if he was lucky enough to live that long.  But this boy—this amazing, beautiful boy, who never ceased to surprise him—believed in him enough to face down his own father. At gunpoint. The least he could do was take a stab at repaying that faith.

Blowing the breath out, he asked, “Is there somewhere private we could talk? Preferably without an arsenal close at hand?”

 

They settled, oddly enough, on Peter’s apartment. Given that the rest of the pack and probably half the sheriff’s department weren’t too happy with them just then, it was the only place they could be assured a private conversation. No one had ever been to Peter’s place. He’d actually been confident that no one knew where it was, until Stiles drove them straight to his door without asking for directions.

One of these days he really would learn not to underestimate the boy.

Peter made them chamomile tea, because hey, it couldn’t hurt. Also he was stalling. After fifteen minutes of puttering around assembling snacks, Stiles got fed up and called him on it. 

“Will you just sit down and say what you’ve got to say already? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had kind of a long day.”

Peter set the plate and cups down on the coffee table and pulled up a chair across from Stiles, who was settled on the love seat.  He really didn’t want to be within arm’s reach, werewolf strength or not. He’d be a fool to think the budding emissary would come into his den without a few tricks up his sleeve.

“Alright. First of all, you have to promise to hear me all the way through before you kill me.” Stiles raised an eyebrow at Peter’s nervousness, but nodded for him to continue. 

He sighed, twisting the tea cup in his hands.  “You said you understood where I was coming from, in what Meredith…overheard.  I felt Talia was ultimately to blame for the fire. She was too lenient, too trusting. I was her left hand, responsible for pack security and enforcement, but she never listened to my advice.

“So I hope you can also understand that, not knowing exactly why Beacon Hills was suddenly under attack—why my pack, my only remaining family was on some psycho’s hit list _again_ —all I could see was history repeating itself.”

“Only with Scott instead of Talia,” Stiles said, understanding dawning. He set his cup down and moved to stand. “Peter, what did you do?”

Peter put his hands up. “Nothing’s done yet. There’s still time to turn this around. Please, let me finish?”

Reluctantly, Stiles sat back down.

“Yes, I believed that Scott was leading us down the same path. He let Gerard Argent live. He let Deucalion go free, after he was responsible for forcing Derek to kill a member of his own pack. He allowed the twins to play at being part of his pack.  He refused to listen to your warnings about your own possession.”

“I wasn’t exactly happy about any of those decisions either,” Stiles agreed.

“And that’s my point! If he wouldn’t listen to you, his best friend and emissary, what chance was there of altering his course without drastic measures?”

“I assume that by ‘drastic measures’ you mean killing him,” he said drily.

Peter looked away and shifted in his seat. “If it helps, it was always an option of last resort. I’d hoped to acquire alpha power by other means and use it to oust him from the territory by blood right.”

“You probably could’ve just waited for him to go to college,” Stiles commented, biting into a cookie. He seemed to have accepted Peter’s assurance that his friend was in no immediate danger.

Peter shrugged. “Possibly. But then _Kate_ came back.” The venom in his voice could have paralyzed a kanima. “You understand — I _know_ you understand — that I couldn’t let her live. Everything that I’d done, everything that I’d become since the fire, would be meaningless if she was allowed to win. So I came up with a way to kill two birds with one stone.”

Stiles’ head sank further and further into his hands as Peter detailed his plan to use Kate to kill Scott, and then to use Scott’s alpha power to kill her—or, barring that, have Malia do it for him. When he finally finished, Stiles groaned.

“Really, Peter? _That_ was your plan? I’ve thought up better plans on the toilet.”

“Well, I was under a little bit of stress, what with the assassins trying to kill everyone and my nemesis coming back as a were-jaguar!” Peter argued, gesturing dramatically.

Stiles snickered at the word ‘nemesis.’  “Seriously, though, you know there’s only one way out of this that doesn’t involve the entire pack stringing you up by your balls.” He raised his eyebrows.

Peter managed to meet his stare for a few beats before dropping his gaze to the floor. “Yes.”

He gathered their tea cups morosely as Stiles pulled out his phone. “Chris? Are you busy right now? Peter and I have to talk to you about something.”

 


	2. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Just when I thought you couldn’t sound any more like a Scooby-Doo villain,” Stiles quipped. He looked perfectly relaxed, and Peter felt a sick flutter of panic in his gut. This had to be a double-cross. The boy couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to face down Kate on his own, even if he trusted Peter not to cut and run. Could he?_

Peter paced along the tunnel, trying to look thoughtful instead of like he was trying to vibrate out of his skin.  Kate leaned against the damp wall and watched him carefully.

“You look nervous,” she commented.

“I’m not nervous,” he said. “I’m…rattled. I don’t like being rattled.”  That much was true at least, and consistent with the public version of events.  Kate had barked with laughter when she heard about his confrontation with the sheriff. It had taken all his willpower not to crush her windpipe right there.

“But it’s over. The dead pool’s done,” she pointed out. “And if you need to be reminded, everything else is going exactly your way.”

He covered his reaction with an eyeroll. “Not exactly my way.”

Things could not being going farther from _his_ way _._   But so far they were going _Stiles’_ way, which was…maybe better.

Stiles had insisted on holding his hand, literally, throughout their conversation with Chris.  Peter had grumbled about it for appearances’ sake, but even now he felt like the boy’s confident support was the only thing holding him together.  If anyone had suggested to him twenty-four hours ago that he’d be putting himself at risk for the approval of a seventeen-year-old human, he’d probably have snapped their neck.  But Stiles’ faith in him was so different from Scott’s blind, puppy-dog earnestness.  He knew who Peter was, really knew him in a way Peter wasn’t sure he himself did anymore, and he was willing to put his own ass on the line to prove his point.

Peter’s train of thought started to lead to a more detailed examination of the ass in question, and that wasn’t a slope he could afford to slide down right now, thank you very much.

“Maybe every little piece in your game didn’t move _just_ as predicted, but they still moved perfectly into place,” Kate continued languidly.

He spared some amusement for that, considering she was one of the pieces. Then a cold tendril of doubt slithered through his mind.  Was he being out-maneuvered?  He’d find the idea laughable if it was anyone but Stiles, but the boy had bested him before—fatally. Stiles was the only person Peter had met since the fire who could match his scheming; something proved repeatedly in their weekly chess battles.

Kate misinterpreted his silence. “You wanna bail on the plan,” she accused.

“Of course not,” he said, pushing aside his doubts. It was too late to do another U-turn now. The trap was set, he was the bait, and all he could do was hope that its jaws didn’t close around him as well. “Not when I’m this close. Not when I’m this close to killing—”

_You._

“—Scott McCall.”

 

While clichéd, the phrase ‘it happened so fast’ applied well to the next few minutes.  Footsteps echoed through the tunnels, accompanied by the stench of the Beserkers. Kate straightened expectantly, a triumphant smirk already forming on her face.

“And that should be our guest of hon— _you,”_ she finished flatly as Stiles rounded the corner, holding a Berserker claw in one hand and his aluminum bat in the other. “Well, if isn’t the True Alpha’s meddling little hanger-on.”  Her smirk returned as she registered that the boy appeared to be alone and effectively unarmed.

“Just when I thought you couldn’t sound any more like a Scooby-Doo villain,” Stiles quipped. He looked perfectly relaxed, and Peter felt a sick flutter of panic in his gut. This had to be a double-cross. The boy couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to face down Kate on his own, even if he trusted Peter not to cut and run. Could he?

But Kate looked equal parts amused and annoyed, and Stiles didn’t make any move to placate her.

In fact, he was swaggering _closer_ , spinning his bat in a way that might have seemed threatening, if he were confronting a stray cat rather than a were-jaguar.  “I mean, are you even _actually_ Kate Argent, or if I tugged on your face would you turn out to be Scrappy-Doo in a really convincing bitch costume?”

“Why don’t you try it and find out?” she growled, shifting and assuming a fighting stance.

He strained his supernatural senses to the limits, searching for any sign that Chris and his hunters were on their way.  Nothing.  Dammit, this wasn’t the _plan._

“Stiles, _run!”_ he shouted at the little idiot.  He shifted into beta form and threw himself between them just as Kate made to charge.

“Aww, how sweet,” she purred, her claws slicing into Peter instead as they barreled into a wall. “Did you follow my example and find yourself a little boy-toy? Not sure about your taste, though; at least Derek had some muscle on him.”

Stiles chose that moment to demonstrate his muscles — or lack thereof — by slamming his bat across the back of her head.  Keeping Peter pinned effortlessly with one hand, she swatted the human like a fly. He landed in a puddle a few feet away and began to struggle to his feet.

She growled in annoyance. “We’re gonna have to put a pin in this conversation while I deal with your plaything. Don’t go anywhere!” she sing-songed. She scooped a length of rebar off the floor, and in one smooth movement drove it through his abdomen and into the wall, bending the end to keep him from sliding off.

Stiles’ screams mixed with the sound of gunshots, and followed him down into darkness.

 

When Peter dragged himself back to consciousness, he was in a bed, possibly his own. Stiles’ face loomed over him like a moon, amusement warring with concern in his whiskey-brown eyes.

“Y’know, the whole point of that plan was for you _not_ to die,” he said.

Peter wanted to make a snarky comeback, but all that came out was a groan. Definitely not dead, then. He remembered being dead. It hurt a lot less.

Worry flooded back into Stiles’ face. “Shit, sorry. _Shit._ Stay there, don’t try to move. Chris left some tea for you, and I’m supposed to check to see you’re healing okay. We had to cut off your shirt,” he added apologetically, as if that _mattered._ As if Stiles had anything to apologize to him for, expect maybe for trying to get himself killed.

That surge of anger gave Peter the strength to grab Stiles’ wrist when he tried to move away. “Kate,” he croaked. He couldn’t manage any inflection, but Stiles understood.

“She’s dead,” he said firmly. The fierceness in his gaze made something in Peter’s heart flutter. “Deader than dead. Chris cut her in half, and I burned that bitch ‘til she was nothing but a pile of dust. Poetic fuckin’ justice.”

Peter managed a minute nod of acknowledgement. He allowed himself to relax into the mattress while Stiles went to retrieve the tea, using the time to reorient himself. It was definitely his bed. The ceiling was familiar, and so was the comforter, though it smelled like Stiles and a little bit like antiseptic. He wondered how long the boy had lain there with him, waiting for him to wake up. Wondered if Stiles had been the one to clean his wound.  The thought made him shiver.

Stiles returned with the tea and helped prop him up a bit to drink it. His long fingers were cool against Peter’s werewolf-warm skin, and Peter fought not to lean into the touch.  The effort ended up being pointless; Stiles wrapped himself the older man while he drank, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck and humming mindlessly.

Peter raised an eyebrow over the rim of the mug, but Stiles just shrugged. “Pack touch helps you heal,” he said.

“I wasn’t aware I was in Scott’s pack,” he grumbled. The tea tasted terrible, like all such concoctions, but Peter could feel his strength coming back as he drained the cup.  The dull throbbing in his abdomen was almost gone, too.

“You’re in _my_ pack,” Stiles informed him.

“And was the price of admission free rein of my wardrobe?” he asked drily, waving his fingers at the loose v-neck and sweatpants Stiles was wearing. The sight of the human in his clothes, in his _bed,_ affected Peter more than he wanted to admit. For the first time he was grateful that Stiles didn’t have a werewolf’s enhanced senses.

Stiles blushed. “My clothes got kind of wrecked during the fight. I also used your phone to let people know I’m still alive. Mine’s in, like, a million pieces.”

He took the empty mug and put it on the nightstand. Peter took the opportunity to wrap his arm around the boy’s shoulders and pull him closer. “So tell me about this plan I interfered with, because it looked less like what we discussed with Chris and more like you mindlessly throwing yourself into danger.”

Laying his head on Peter’s chest, Stiles mumbled into his collarbone, “It was my idea. I didn’t trust the guys Chris roped in not to shoot you. I thought I could distract Kate long enough for you to get away. I was armed with more than the bat, just so you know.”

“Stiles,” Peter sighed, placing a kiss on the top of his head, “next time you want to make a plan, let’s put someone _else_ in the line of fire, okay?  Maybe Isaac.”

Stiles chuckled and snuggled closer. They lay quietly for a while, Peter soaking in the unaccustomed comfort of another person’s affection.  The pain in his gut had almost completely subsided, which unfortunately threw another ache into the spotlight.

“You know this doesn’t solve the larger problem, through,” he said reluctantly. “I can’t keep the people I care about safe.  I’m not going to be satisfied until I have the power to protect my family. To protect _you_.”

“I know.” Stiles propped his head up to look at the wolf. “And honestly, this pack — this town — needs you, whether they realize it or not. We’ll find a way. I’ve got a few leads from Chris on some problem alphas that might present an opportunity for us.”

“Us?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

Sitting up all the way, Stiles regarded him seriously. “Don’t be dense, Peter.”

Peter let a slow grin take over his face, and then leaned forward and kissed his packmate within an inch of his life.


	3. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ever since my mom started going downhill, I’ve felt like there’s quicksand under me all the time. She didn’t just lose her mind; she made me question my sanity too. I mean, I was just a little kid, and she called me a monster. Told my dad to keep me away from her, that I wanted to kill her._
> 
> _“And the worst part about it is that sometimes I did. And after she died, I thought my dad could tell that I was relieved—relieved that she was gone, and relieved that I hadn’t killed her after all. I thought that was why he started drinking all the time, to…to avoid me, I guess.”_

An insistent pounding on his apartment door shattered Peter’s hopes for a leisurely morning.

Stiles squirmed against him, tightening his grip on the werewolf and grumbling unhappily. “I thought no one knew where you lived.”

“Well, you found me,” Peter pointed out. “And I wasn’t in any shape to cover our tracks yesterday, what with having been stabbed.”

“Tell them to go away,” Stiles said petulantly.

Peter made a halfhearted attempt to sit up, only to have the boy pull him closer again. “You’re going to have to let me up if you want me to take care of the noise, sweetheart.”

Stiles’ eyes popped open. “Did the biggest, baddest wolf in Beacon Hills just call me ‘sweetheart’?”

“Would you prefer ‘sugar muffin’?” Peter asked with a tiny smirk. “‘Honey bun?’”

A renewed banging interrupted their playful moment. Peter wasn’t sure how much longer the structural integrity of the door would hold.

“Okay, okay, go appease whoever the hell that is.” Stiles smacked Peter on the butt as the werewolf rolled out of bed.

He opened the door mid-thump and Scott fell into the apartment, almost landing face-first on Peter’s carpet. Derek stood in the hallway like an angry rock. “Where’s Stiles?” he growled out, as if each word cost him physical effort.

“Still in bed.” Peter smirked as his nephew’s glare took in Peter’s shirtless state and intensified. There was a distressed squawk from the floor area, where Scott was struggling to his feet.

“What did you do to him?! Stiles!” Scott shouted.

Stiles choose that moment to wander out of the bedroom, rubbing his hair sleepily. He was still in Peter’s t-shirt and sweatpants. They hadn’t done much more than kiss the night before, but Peter had managed to leave a few blossoming marks on his collarbone, displayed nicely by the deep V of the shirt. Derek made a choking noise behind him, and Peter felt a surge of possessive pride.

“You wanna keep it down, Scotty? I was hoping to catch up on some sleep today before you tried tearing the door down.”

Scott gaped at him for a moment before turning on Peter again. “What did you do to him? Brainwashing? Hypnosis?” He swiveled back to his friend. “Are you possessed again?”

Sighing, Stiles motioned for Derek to come in and shut the door behind him. “C’mon, buddy, let me make some coffee and we’ll talk about this like rational, non-sleep-deprived people.”

 

It took the better part of an hour just for Stiles to convince his best friend that he wasn’t being brainwashed or blackmailed. He also delivered the news that Kate had been disposed of permanently, though he left a few crucial details out. Derek looked like he knew there was more to the story but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Peter found himself admiring the dance Stiles did with his explanation. He skirted expertly around the truth without actually telling a lie. He wished again that he’d bitten Stiles in the woods instead of Scott — especially since the True Alpha kept interrupting every other sentence to ask stupid questions.

“How did you find Kate’s lair?”

“Like I said, Peter was able to sniff her out,” Stiles repeated with a hint of exasperation. “He’s not an alpha anymore, but he still turned her. I guess that made it a little easier for him to tell when she was nearby.”

Scott was clearly skeptical of this explanation, but let it go. “Why did you go to Mr. Argent for help and not us?” he asked with a touch of hurt. “And why did he agree to help you? I didn’t think you guys were…speaking.”

“Really, Scotty? After that scene down at the station, I was supposed to trust any of you with this idea? The two of you weren’t there, but I doubt you would’ve stood up for Peter if you had been. And Chris and I have been talking a lot lately, actually. Not that you’d know.” Stiles’ body language had stiffened, and Peter place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Peter and Chris used to date,” Derek said suddenly, breaking the tense moment. Scott and Stiles both swiveled their heads to gape at him.

Peter gave a deep sigh. “Did you _have_ to tell them that?”

Derek just gave him a smug little smile in return. Sometimes it was painfully obvious they were related.

“That explains _so much,_ ” Stiles exclaimed, turning back to Peter. “You are going to tell me _everything,_ ” he added in a theatrical whisper.

Peter snorted. “In your dreams.”

A slow, wicked grin spread over the younger man’s face. “We’ll see.”

Firmly repressing a shiver, Peter kept his expression blank. That look was unfairly attractive. He wondered how quickly he could push their unwelcome visitors out and wipe it off Stiles’ face.

“So… Are you two sleeping together now?” Scott interrupted with his usual tact. He looked like just thinking about it nauseated him.

“Only in the literal sense, not that it’s any of your business,” Stiles said. “And it’s _not_ any of your business. Whatever kind of relationship Peter and I decide to have, I think he’s more than proven his value and loyalty to this pack.”

The alpha’s mouth twisted. “I guess we’ll see. I really hope you know what you’re doing, Stiles.”

“I do,” he said firmly. Peter wondered if he was imagining a hint of resignation in Stiles’ tone.

 

Scott left soon after that, Derek trailing after him like a puppy. He gave his uncle barest hint of a smile on the way out, and said softly, “Don’t fuck this up, Uncle Peter.”

Peter figured that was about as much forgiveness as he could expect, or deserved.

As soon as Peter closed the door, Stiles went back to the couch and flopped down dramatically. Peter sat on the cushion next to him, and the younger man promptly rearranged himself so that his head was in Peter’s lap, his legs dangling over the arm of the couch. “Well, that was not the way I wanted to spend this morning.”

“Oh?” Peter said. He buried his hand in Stiles’ hair and began stroking it. “And what _did_ you have in mind?”

“More of this, for starters.” His eyes were half-lidded, his face relaxed. If he were a cat, he’d probably be purring. “I like being close to you.”

Peter felt a sudden throb in his chest. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Why?”

Opening his eyes, Stiles struggled to prop himself up on his elbows and look at Peter. He appeared to give the question a reasonable amount of thought before he said, “I feel safe with you. Not just, like, physically safe, but like… I know you accept me.”

He sat up the rest of the way and turned around, but stayed within touching distance. “Ever since my mom started going downhill, I’ve felt like there’s quicksand under me all the time. She didn’t just lose her mind; she made me question my sanity too. I mean, I was just a little kid, and she called me a monster. Told my dad to keep me away from her, that I wanted to kill her.

“And the worst part about it is that sometimes I did. And after she died, I thought my dad could tell that I was relieved—relieved that she was gone, and relieved that I hadn’t killed her after all. I thought that was why he started drinking all the time, to…to avoid me, I guess.” Stiles’ voice remained steady, but Peter recognized the blankness of his expression and tone as an effort to keep an enormous wave of emotion at bay.

“I feel the same way with Scott, only I know I’m not imagining it. We’re one disagreement away from him saying the same things my mother did, and I don’t think I can take that. I don’t have to worry about that with you. And I don’t think that’s because either of us are _really_ monsters. That would be too easy, too reductive. I think it’s just because we see the world the same way. We see the bad things that can happen if the people who can stop them aren’t willing to get their hands dirty.”

Not knowing what to say to that, Peter wrapped an arm around Stiles and squeezed him tightly. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, until Stiles’ stomach growled. “I guess we forgot breakfast, huh?”

“I’ll make us some omelets,” Peter said, getting up. Stiles followed him into the kitchen and accepted the tomato and scallions Peter gave him to chop.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Stiles said eventually, his voice quiet. “But before I do I want you to know that it’s just an offer, something I thought might help. I’m not here to _fix_ you.”

The bitterness in the word ‘fix’ told Peter there was a story there, but he just nodded. “Okay.”

“So, I’ve been seeing a therapist. Not Marin, God forbid. I trust her and her brother about as far as I can throw the Nemeton.” He punctuated this with a particularly vicious chop. “After…the nogitsune, I went to see my Aunt Aneta. She’s a Disciple of Judas — she and my mom were raised in the Order — and I wanted to see if she could…help me.”

“You wanted to know if you were still possessed,” Peter said. “You knew that if you were, the Order would put you down.”

Stiles stopped chopping and pressed his palms to his eyes, then slid them back through his hair. “I just didn’t want to hurt anyone else, you know? And I kept having nightmares… I needed to know for sure.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, obviously she said I wasn’t, but that I should get some counseling. So she referred me to a therapist over in Dalton, one with experience with the supernatural and post-possession cases.”

“A Confessor?”

“There is one in the practice, but no, mine’s just a regular therapist.”

Peter hummed, and they continued working in silence for a few more minutes. After they’d plated the omelets and settled down to eat, he finally spoke.  “It’s not a bad idea. I’ll give it some thought. I’m not thrilled about going to the Disciples for help, but they’re certainly a better option than Marin or her colleagues at Eichen House.”

They both shuddered at that. “When you’re alpha, think we can get around to razing that place to the ground?” Stiles asked.

“I’m certain we can arrange that.” Peter stood and gathered up the plates, pausing to press a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, for not taking that the wrong way,” Stiles responded with relief. He followed Peter into the kitchen with their glasses.

“Maybe all that ‘you’re not a monster’ business is sinking in,” Peter said lightly over the ache in his chest. He deposited their plates in the sink and turned to wrap his arms around Stiles. He didn’t plan on letting go.


	4. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter had done some research of his own on the place, of course. The Silvertree website contained little of substance. The practice consisted of five therapists: two male, three female. All were eminently qualified in their fields, but not to a degree that would draw attention, apart from having spent a bit more time in criminal psychology than was usual in private practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a new chapter! Honestly, the reason this has taken so long is that I was trying to write a chapter from Stiles' point of view. Then [Brandi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brandileeder/pseuds/brandileeder) convinced me that it was better to keep things from Peter's POV anyway, so you can thank her for this chapter!

The Silvertree Clinic was located in an ordinary enough office park, though it was set off at the back and screened by a row of sycamores.  A dozen cars dotted the small parking lot; none as posh as Peter’s Audi, but not rust-buckets like the Jeep, either.  Compared to Eichen House, the low brick building was almost conspicuously unassuming.

Peter slid smoothly into a parking spot close to the door and turned off the engine, but he didn’t immediately get out.

It had taken him two weeks — and three screaming nightmares — to get to this point.  True to his word, Stiles hadn’t pressed the subject, even when Peter’s nighttime flailing pushed him out of the bed. He’d simply made them chamomile tea and answered Peter’s occasional questions.

Peter had done some research of his own on the place, of course.  The Silvertree website contained little of substance. The practice consisted of five therapists: two male, three female. All were eminently qualified in their fields, but not to a degree that would draw attention, apart from having spent a bit more time in criminal psychology than was usual in private practice.

They only accepted patients by referral. According to Stiles, this meant the referral of one of the Disciples of Judas, or a fellow patient.  Stiles’ aunt had referred him, and he in turn had referred Peter. They didn’t accept insurance, which he assumed was for privacy reasons, but a sliding scale of fees was available based on income. Peter didn’t bother with it. Most of his money had been recovered after Meredith’s confession, and in any case he’d had a few stashes around in various banks since before the fire. It had been one of his little acts of defiance against Talia’s control.

The thought of discussing his relationship with his sister with a stranger was almost enough for him to put the car back in gear and drive away, but instead he used that energy to propel himself out of the car and through the front door.

The inside of the office appeared just as ordinary as the outside. Pastel colors, bland institutional furniture, inoffensive music. The differences were subtle: pamphlets scattered on the tables bore titles like “Post-Possession Syndrome,” and a young boy sitting quietly with his mother kept sprouting furry, pointed ears.

He slid a few pamphlets that read “Transitioning to the Supernatural: A Guide for the Newly Turned” into his pocket as he made his way to the receptionist’s desk. Another anomaly presented itself there. Aside from a hefty Swingline stapler, a small stack of magazines, a jade plant, and a nameplate reading ‘Clio Athanasios’, the reception desk was bare. No files, no computer, no sign-in sheet. Not even a stack of Post-It notes.

The receptionist — Clio — cleared her throat, pulling his attention away from the apparently purposeless stapler.  “It’s an antique,” she said when his gaze swung up to meet hers. “Can I help you?”

He pasted on a charming smile. “Yes, I have an appointment at one-fifteen with Dr. Bekenner.”

Clio had shifted her stare to the air above his right shoulder before he even finished speaking. “Peter Hale.” She tapped the stapler absently as her dark eyes flicked back and forth. “Paid in full, auto-transfer set for future appointments. Looks like everything’s in order. I’ll take you back to Dr. Bekenner’s office.” Focusing on him again, she smiled pleasantly and stood. “Right this way.”

She led him briskly down a short hallway and ushered him through a plain white door, as if aware that he might linger outside it forever if left to his own devices. He reflected irritably that he’d felt more off-balance in the past few weeks than he had since coming back from the dead. But then he remembered the feeling of Stiles’ cool fingers wrapped around his, and the irritation fled.

Clio shut the door softly behind him. Peter was instantly struck by the absence of sound from outside the room, so total that he wondered if they’d added magical soundproofing as well as mundane. Dr. Bekenner rose from an armchair and offered her hand. She was dressed casually in a soft-looking beige sweater and blue jeans, blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. She looked to be in her early thirties, pretty in an angular way. Her grip was firm.

He’d expected someone more imposing, he supposed. The Disciples of Judas were both respected and feared in the supernatural community. The degree of each depended on who you talked to.

“Hello, Peter. I’m Dr. Bekenner, but you can call me Maria if you like. It’s nice to meet you.” He caught the barest trace of an accent; probably German, judging by her surname. “Would you like some tea?”

She gestured for him to sit, and he settled on a small couch opposite the armchair. She turned to flick on an electric kettle sitting on a small cabinet, and pulled mugs and tea bags from inside.

“Yes, please.” He was grateful for the chance to orient himself and look around. The room was small and comfortable.  It looked lived-in, like someone’s sitting room rather than a doctor’s office. The smell of the tea steeping added to the homey atmosphere. Cynically, he knew that the atmosphere was probably designed to set clients at ease, but Maria seemed to fit into it organically.

“One lump or two?” she asked as she pulled the tea bags out.

“One, please.”

“Sugar?” she added with a slight twist to her lips. He barked out a laugh, surprised. Her smile grew, amusement sparking her grey eyes. 

“There we are.” She set the mugs on the table and folded herself into the armchair.  “I’m glad to see you have a sense of humor. It will make our conversations easier.”

Peter wrapped his hands around his mug, grateful for the warmth as much as the distraction. “I’ve never had…conversations…like this before.”

“No?” Maria quirked an eyebrow. “And I was told you specifically requested an appointment with a Confessor, so I assume you’re familiar with my Order. What kind of conversation are you hoping to have, Peter?”

He sipped his tea, choosing his words. “There’s a door I want to walk through. An opportunity for a new beginning, a different path than the ones I’ve walked before. And I can’t do it until I’ve laid the past behind me to rest.”

She nodded. “And why did you specifically wish to speak to a Confessor? I’m sure Clio informed you that all our therapists offer complete privacy, but you also know that our sessions will fall under the Seal of Confession. Not even my Crucifor can compel me to discuss them. Are you concerned about retribution?”

“I’ve killed people,” Peter said bluntly. He flashed his eyes rather than elaborate. “But since then I’ve died and come back. I don’t think even the Disciples would ask for more penance than that.”

She smiled. “The fact that you’ve sought our help would place you under our protection, regardless. Our reputation is somewhat crueler than the reality. In most cases.”

He set the mug on the table with a clink. “My memories have been tampered with in the past. My sister—my Alpha—removed whole chunks of my life, a daughter I didn’t know I had. There may be more, things I don’t even know I’m missing. I thought you might be able to help me recover them.”

Maria set her tea down as well. Her grey eyes were serious. “I can. But the recovery of memories can be quite traumatic. And changes as large as the one you describe are very dangerous; they can alter a person’s sense of self, make them unstable. You said your Alpha did this to you? A family member? Have you been able to confront her about it?”

He chuckled bitterly. “She’s dead. And I suppose that’s as good a place to begin as any.”


	5. Malice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...
> 
> Thanks to the folks on the Steter Network Discord, writing for this fic is coming much faster! Whee!

When he got home from therapy, Peter made himself a cup of tea and curled up in his armchair. His latest session with Maria had been incredibly draining. Talking about the fire itself was the least of it; he’d done that before, with Stiles and a little bit with Derek, surprisingly. But talking about _before_ the fire…

For Derek, talking about that time was hard because of everything he’d lost. Peter had lost things too, but many of those had been long before their family home burned. 

His parents had died when he was about fourteen, in a confrontation with another pack. Talia was twenty-two when she became Alpha. A little young, but not unprepared in the way Laura was.  What Peter hadn’t been prepared for was the way their relationship would change.

He was still in high school, and apprenticed to his mother’s left hand in preparation for filling the role for Talia when he graduated from college. Suddenly his dreams of going away to Yale, seeing the world—everything had been put on hold indefinitely. Adrian, his mentor, had warned him that the position was an isolating one, but even so it was a shock. Overnight, it seemed that everyone in the pack began to view him with a certain wariness, if not outright distaste. Talia was seen as a fair, even-handed alpha, while Peter followed behind her, covering up any mistakes that would tarnish that image.

But apparently she’d done some covering up of her own, too. During his talks with Maria, he’d run into more than one place where things he should’ve known simply…weren’t there.

He took a deep breath. Dwelling on it would only make him angry again. At least he had a plan now. Dr. Bekenner said they would continue to feel out where the gaps in his memory were, making a sort of map of the negative space. Then, when he felt ready, they could begin work on recovering those memories.

The thought of what he might uncover both terrified and exhilarated him. He would give so much for a few memories of Malia as a baby, or to know who her mother was and what the relationship between them had been. He was still furious at his sister for taking his memories of the Nemeton; if she’d left them alone, Stiles wouldn’t have had to briefly die and leave himself open for possession by the _nogitsune._

He picked up his phone and texted Stiles: ‘ _Home from therapy. How’s school?’_

_‘Class is fine. Lunch was a little awkward. Battle lines have been drawn.’_ Relations between Stiles and the True Alpha had grown more strained. Stiles had tried talking things out with him, pointing out that the deadpool was over and they were all on the same side, but it hadn’t worked. Scott kept insisting that Peter couldn’t be trusted, and nothing Stiles could say seemed to change his mind.

_‘Be careful,’_ Peter texted back.

_‘Always. Things are looking up, though: Lydia and Isaac joined us at our table today.’_ ‘Us’ meant Stiles and Malia, who’d declared herself on Stiles’ side before anyone even brought up the idea of choosing. His daughter was loyal, and a good judge of character, Peter thought with pride. Also, far too pragmatic to accept Scott’s leadership. She’d pointed out more than once that using his tactics in the wild would get him eaten.

_‘That’s interesting. I wouldn’t have thought Isaac could be parted from Scott.’_

There was a long pause before Stiles replied. Peter rinsed out his mug and rifled through the fridge for something to put together for dinner. Then, ‘ _Scott’s been ignoring him since he hooked up with Kira. Which ironically gave us something to bond over. It seems like Chris has been encouraging him to see things our way, too, and he’s basically Isaac’s new father figure now._ ’

_‘Will you be here for dinner tonight?’_ Peter caught himself typing ‘home’ and backtracked. Stiles still lived with his father, despite how much time he spent at the apartment. It was hard to remind himself that their relationship wasn’t officially anything other than packmates, no matter what other labels Peter wanted to put on it: boyfriend, Emissary. Mate.

Neither of them was ready for that, and the last thing this situation needed was relationship drama.

_‘Yeah, but I’m sleeping at home tonight. Dad gets off at 10.’_

Peter stomped down ruthlessly on the sense of loss he felt. Stiles already slept with him at least four nights a week. Even with their respective nightmares, they got more rest together than apart. He could manage to share Stiles with the sheriff, at least until the boy graduated from high school.

Especially since John had gone out of his way a little to get to know Peter in the last few weeks. The three of them had had dinner together a few times, and the sheriff had asked him politely about his work sourcing antique books, his interests, and even more politely avoided mentioning his murders. Then he’d invited Peter to watch a baseball game together, during which he’d only threatened twice to kill him if he ever hurt his son.

It was progress.

The tension between Stiles and Scott worried at the edges of his mind, though. He wasn’t sorry at all for coming between the two friends. From what Stiles had said, that relationship had already been falling apart, and Peter had never been happy with the way Scott treated his supposed ‘best friend’ to begin with. But Scott was an alpha, and Peter still wasn’t. Scott had a trained emissary on his side, and Stiles was still learning from a mage friend in Santa Clara.

Chris was looking into leads for them on the alpha front, but Peter wanted to get a little further in therapy before taking advantage of them. He wasn’t about to risk a repeat of last time, not when he had so much to lose.

~

“I want to try something different today,” Maria told him when he arrived for his next session. “We’ve been making great progress sorting through your feelings about your family, and I think we’re nearly ready to start work on recovering your memories. So, today I’d like to feel out where those spaces might be, and see if we can’t get an idea of the scope of what we’re dealing with.”

Peter sat down on the couch and closed his eyes, taking a moment to consider how he felt about this, while Maria moved about making them tea. “I think I’m ready.”

He actually felt okay about it, he thought as he accepted his tea. They’d been meeting three times a week for the past month, and they’d covered a lot of ground in that time. He’d talked about his relationship with Talia, his fears about being a monster or a bad alpha, and his hopes for the future. Particularly with regard to Stiles and Malia. Starting to recover his memories was the next step.

Of course, they’d discussed the fact that memory recovery wasn’t the end of the journey. It was possible, even probable, that whatever they dug up could be traumatic or troubling in its own right. Even if it wasn’t, it would no doubt stir up more anger and resentment at Talia for taking those things from him. Peter didn’t really mind. He liked Dr. Bekenner, and planned on keeping up his visits to her at least occasionally even after their specific work was done.

“All I’m going to do today is feel around the edges of your memories, get a sense for where the blockages are, how strong they are, and how extensive. That will tell me how many sessions we’re likely to need, and how long each one will take. If I find something particularly challenging, you may want to plan to have someone to drive you home on the day we tackle that.”

He nodded. “Will it hurt?”

“Today’s work won’t hurt at all, though it might feel a little strange. It will require a great deal of trust, because I will be able to see the memories surrounding the blockages, and when we open them up I will see those memories as well. But we’ve talked about that. You’re still okay with it?”

“Yes.” Even if he didn’t trust Maria — and he did, which was impressive for someone as paranoid as him — he trusted her faith. A Confessor would never break the Seal of Confession, and if she did the sentence mandated by her Order would be death. He wouldn’t get such assurances if he let another alpha dig around in his mind, let alone Deaton. He shuddered at the thought of that; he’d never particularly liked the man, and Stiles’ open distrust of him and only reinforced the feeling.

“Alright then. Go ahead and get comfortable, and we’ll get started.” She moved the coffee table out of the way and pulled her armchair up until she was directly in front of him. Leaning forward, she placed her fingers at his temples and closed her eyes. He did the same.

She was right; it didn’t hurt. He felt a sort of light tickling sensation, and a few memories flickered by: running through the woods, hauling a much younger Derek by the arm; at a party, turning to look at someone who’d caught his eye; the woods around their house, at night, running an extra perimeter check after Talia had annoyed him.

Finally she released him and sat back. He opened his eyes to see her face twisted in a frown.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Well, the good news is that most of the blocks are not too extensive, and the majority of them are fairly weak. One of them will be a little tougher — maybe two to three hours’ work — but not beyond my ability.” She paused for a moment. “The strange part is, there are two different signatures. The weaker blocks have the flavor of an alpha’s magic, the same sort of aura that runs through all werewolf things. Also, they correspond to the spaces we have already seen in your memories: around Paige’s death, and a cluster around the time when you would have met Malia’s mother, given your daughter’s age.”

“And the stronger one?” Peter asked, trying to suppress his rising alarm.

“The stronger one is human magic. It appears to be blocking a small memory, one that you mightn’t have even missed. The flavor of that magic is what concerns me. It has an aura of malice around it that the others do not have. Whoever blocked that memory was filled with hate, and whatever they covered up, their intentions were not good.”  

Peter felt an urge to claw at his scalp, as if he could scratch the foreign influence out. “Can you…can you at least tell when it was from?”

Maria shook her head. “It is later than the others, that’s all I can tell you. Sometime between what was likely Malia’s birth, and the time you were in a coma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!!!


	6. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some Hale Family Feels! I really enjoyed writing this one. :) I just want my baby to have nice things, really.

_“Peter, I’ve had enough of your paranoid ramblings for one day,” Talia said, pressing her fingers to her temples. “The LaPlante pack will be arriving tomorrow, and we all have preparations to make. You should be reviewing the security plans, not bothering me with your conspiracy theories.”_

_“They’re not_ theories, _Talia. Someone has been helping the hunters target supernatural creatures all over the county. Did you even look at the spreadsheet I made? And I am taking care of security, I always do. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He tried to keep his composure, but he could tell his eyes were starting to glow._

_“In case you’ve forgotten,_ I _am the alpha, and stirring up paranoia within the pack is not going to change that. If you don’t let this drop, I’ll have no choice but to seriously consider appointing a different left hand. Now stop_ _bothering me.”_

Peter woke with a growl and a strong urge to tear someone apart. Unfortunately, the only person there was Stiles, who rolled over sleepily and cuddled into his side. “Nightmare, or memory?” the human murmured.

“Memory,” he told Stiles quietly. As he went deeper into his work with Dr. Bekenner, his nightmares had been gradually replaced by memories, and frustration and anger began to replace terror and loss.

“Maybe Lisa can teach me a spell to go back in time and wring your sister’s neck,” Stiles suggested brightly, and Peter huffed a laugh.

“I don’t think it would do any good, but it would certainly be cathartic.”  Peter sat up and started to ease out of the bed. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. It’ll take me a while to calm down, and you have school tomorrow.”

Stiles grumbled a little, but snuggled back into the pillows. “Okay. But you’re in for some extra cuddle time before I leave in the morning.”

Peter leaned over and stroked his hair, planting a kiss on his temple. “That sounds fair.”

 

Peter was still up and working when Stiles shuffled out of the bedroom. He’d meant to get back to sleep, but his agitation over the dream had morphed into anxiety over his plans for the day. Part of the process of healing his past wounds was to try and mend his relationships with existing family, a daunting prospect to say the least. To that end, he’d set aside some time to get coffee with Derek later that day.

His nephew had sounded surprised and—after Peter assured him it didn’t have anything to do with pack politics—cautiously pleased about the invitation.

“It’ll be fine, Peter,” Stiles reassured him as he headed into the kitchen to grab a bagel and his travel mug of coffee. “You’ve done a lot of work with Dr. Bekenner. I’ve seen a real change, and I’m sure Derek will too. He really does care about you, you know.”

“We used to be close, when he was a kid,” Peter told him, wrapping his arms around the younger man from behind. “I’m not sure we’ll ever get that closeness back, but I do want to have some kind of relationship with him. He always stuck by me, even when the rest of the pack warned him away.” He was quiet for a moment, and then added, “I suppose I proved them right, in the end.”

Stiles turn around and swatted him on the arm. “Hey, none of that. Yeah, you did some awful things, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve done a lot of work since then _._ My gran always said, ‘it’s not what you do wrong that really matters—it’s what you do after that.’”

Peter arched a brow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Stiles shrugged on his backpack, “that the mistakes you make don’t matter as much as how you deal with them afterwards. Do you cover them up, try to pretend you didn’t make them? Or do you admit you fucked up and try to fix it? You’re trying to fix it, as much as you can, and I’m sure Derek—and Cora and Malia—will see that and appreciate it.”

“Thank you,” Peter said. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’ lips before he headed out the door.

“Always,” Stiles responded with genuine affection. “I’ll see you tonight.”

~

Even though Peter was a few minutes early, Derek had already claimed a seat in the small coffee shop by the time he arrived. Peter gave him a little wave and then went up to order his own coffee. There was a Starbucks in Beacon Hills, but Peter preferred the coffee at Higher Grounds, not to mention their sublime, and inventive, pastries. Today he chose a Thai chili chocolate brownie to go with his dark-roast coffee.

“You’re braver than I am,” Derek commented as Peter sat down, and pointed at his own lemon-blueberry scone.

“That’s a good choice too, though. This is the only coffee shop I’ve been to where the scones aren’t hard as bricks. Stiles has been trying to weasel the recipe out of Emily for months.”

“Stiles bakes?” Derek raised an eyebrow.

“Yep. He doesn’t do it a lot at home because of his father’s cholesterol, but he’s been taking advantage of my kitchen lately.” Peter took a bite of his brownie. It was pleasantly spicy without being too much. He made a mental note to take a few home so Stiles could try to reverse-engineer them. It wouldn’t stop them from buying them at Higher Grounds; Stiles just liked the challenge.

“So…the two of you are still a thing, then?”

Peter wasn’t sure how to answer that. “We…haven’t really defined anything yet. It’s still pretty new, and we both have issues to work out before we can start something more serious.”

“Scott still thinks you’re manipulating him somehow,” Derek said bluntly.

Peter’s stomach dropped. He should have known that’s what this was about. Why else would Derek want to talk to the man who murdered his sister? “Is that why you came here? To carry a message from your alpha?” he sneered, starting to rise.

Derek reached out to catch his arm. “No, Peter. I… Dammit, you know I’m not good with words. I just wanted to warn you, I guess.”

“I told you I wasn’t here to talk about our packs, Derek. If Scott wants to air his concerns, I’m sure we can set up a meeting on neutral territory,” he said stiffly, but sat back down.

“I guess I don’t really understand why we _are_ here. I don’t mean that I don’t want to talk to you, I’m just not sure what there is to talk about.” Derek looked honestly confused, and Peter had a flashback to the same expression on a younger face.

“I’m in therapy,” Peter said quietly.

“How are _you_ in therapy?” Derek asked. “I mean, no offense, but…the werewolf thing’s gotta be hard to talk around.”

“There’s a clinic not too far away run by the Disciples of Judas. They specialize in supernatural issues.” He took a sip of his coffee, then flicked his eyes up to meet Derek’s gaze. His nephew looked shaken.

“Peter, are you _crazy?”_ he sputtered. Then, realizing what he’d said, “I mean, you could’ve been killed! What if they send the Lances after you?”

“I’m pretty sure if Dr. Bekenner wanted me killed, she could have accomplished that anytime in the last month I’ve been seeing her. Also, she’s a Confessor. Our sessions are completely confidential, even from the other members of her order.”

“And you’re just trusting them?” Derek’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “What happened to ‘I suspect everyone; that’s why I’m still alive’? Now I’m starting to worry that _Stiles_ has you under some kind of spell.”

Peter laughed. “Maybe he does, but if so, I’m not complaining. I couldn’t keep living the way I was, Derek. It was only a matter of time before I went down another dark path, and I don’t expect that even I could escape death twice.

“Anyway, the point is that Dr. Bekenner is working with me to address my family issues. Obviously we’re talking a lot about my relationship with Talia, and the memories she took from me, which we’re working on recovering. But we’ve also talked about my relationships with you, and Cora, and Malia. My living family. I know that too much has happened for things to be the way they were, but I want to have a connection to you. To me, at least, it’s worth the work it would take. So I guess what I’m asking is, would it be worth it to you?”

Peter leaned back in his chair, trying not to clutch his coffee like a lifeline. The rest of his brownie sat on the plate untouched, as his stomach roiled with nerves.

Derek stared into his own cup as if it held the secrets of the universe. “If you’d asked me that a month ago…I think I would have laughed at you. But whatever’s going on with you and Stiles, and I guess with your therapy, it shows. I’m not saying I think you’re suddenly a good guy, or that I’d trust you to take care of my dog, but. There’s something different. That makes me think it might be worth a try.”

“You have a dog?” Peter said, surprised.

Derek actually cracked a smile. Peter considered that a personal triumph. “That’s what you took from that? And yeah. He’s a rescue dog, a mutt. His name’s Lucky.”

“Not Pizza Dog?” Peter grinned back.

“Okay, now I _know_ Stiles has done something to you.”

The rest of their conversation flowed more smoothly, and for upwards of an hour they bantered about comic books, the Marvel movies Stiles had made Peter catch up on, and the books they’d read. As they stood to clean their dishes up, they even made plans to get together the next week, maybe at the dog park so Peter could meet Lucky.

Feeling a hundred times lighter, Peter shot Stiles a text as he left the coffee shop, strolling completely unaware past a dark car idling at the curb.


End file.
